Path to the Night Sea

by Gilmore, Alicia;

  ‘Aargh.’ Her back spasmed. All of the digging had turned the aches in her arms, shoulders, neck, and back to pure, absolute pain. It obliterated the burning of her foot. She should have expected it, the pain. In her life there had never been room for anything else. Not with Daddy. Almost doubled over, she pulled until his body lay at an awkward angle half out of the doorway. I should have sewn handles. Ellie snorted as she jerked his legs into the hallway. She stood, stepped over him, and shifted his torso. It would be easier to drag him now, although the carpet in the hallway did nothing to aid her progress. She wrapped her fingers around his ankles again and stumbled backwards. The sound of the sheet against the carpet was a sinister purr. Ellie looked down at her burden. The front of the sheet was sticking to him in more places. She tried not to imagine what was happening on the underside, or worse, inside the shroud, the peeling slough of skin…

  ‘Please hold. Let them hold.’ Grandmother Clements had always stressed the value of small, neat stitches. What would she think if she saw Ellie’s handiwork now? ‘Unpick it and start again, properly this time, girl.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’ Ellie half expected the retaliatory slap for speaking back, but none came. Grandmother was dead and gone and buried and soon Daddy would be the same.

  ‘Dead and done and gone,’ she chanted as she slowly dragged his weight down the corridor. The stitching had to hold. It had to survive the journey across the yard. Ellie shuffled around the hallway corner that passed the bathroom and led to the kitchen. With her neck and back now burning in time with the agonised fire coursing through her heel, she let the body fall to the floor. I can’t do it, Daddy. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. If she left him here or took him back to his room… No, it was unthinkable. She straightened, stepped across his shrouded form, and reached for his shoulders again.

  ‘We’re going outside, Daddy. You just have to get into the kitchen first, okay?’ She tried to shuffle his body around the corner, alternately pulling and dropping him, before repositioning herself and trying again and again. Holding most of the weight on her good foot, she overbalanced and fell. She sat next to him.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ She groaned as she stood, trying to place more weight onto the ball of her left foot as she pulled him. Every few centimetres were an effort. She finally managed to pull his body into the kitchen. A layer of sweat coated her back and she could also feel it running below her breasts.

  ‘Okay, okay now.’ Her voice was husky. ‘You stay here, Daddy, while I unlock the back door.’ It was easier to slide his body across the linoleum, but getting him out the back door, down the concrete steps, and onto the uneven cement of the narrow path was arduous. His body thumped dully down the back stairs and she winced with each thud. What if she didn’t make it? Ellie tightened her grip. It sounded as though the cotton were grating against the concrete.

  ‘Come on.’ She heard the fabric tear. ‘No, no, no.’ Her stitching had to hold. She couldn’t have him revealed to the world now. Not like this. One, two, three. She retreated into numbers and counted the steps to the enclosure. There was no stopping now, she wouldn’t have him back inside. And the dogs wanted their bones. They couldn’t have Maisie or the babies anymore, so they would have Daddy. I don’t want you anymore. I’m sorry, Daddy, but I don’t. She braced herself and took halting, awkward steps across the dew-soaked grass. With every step, she felt the pain move up her heel and into her ankle, as she hauled her sheeted load. It was taking double the usual unencumbered steps, triple… Her progress was sluggish… eight, nine, ten. The sheet slid from her grasp and she bent, gripped the corners and his feet in clenched hands and hefted them as best as she could, fighting the searing pain that scorched the space between her shoulder blades. Tears welled in her eyes and her breath formed a visible mist in the frosty, predawn air. Eleven, twelve, thirteen…

  Her palms were glazed with sweat. She felt the sheet slip through her fingers again and his body dropped to the ground. She was exhausted. She tried pushing at his shrouded body, contemplated trying to roll him, then lashed out and kicked the sheeted form with her foot. It shook and rolled a little way before rolling back. She moaned as she pushed her shoulders back, heard her neck pop, and looked up. The early morning sky had taken on a jaundiced hue and the pale grey trunks and limbs of the gums were gaunt sentinels in the distance. The cliff and trees formed an impenetrable wall of eucalypt and stone. Soon Daddy would be a part of this landscape, immovable in the earth, buried beneath her shells and stones. The cutting shell. The one that had pierced her heel was still in the jacket pocket. That had to go on top of his grave. It was sharp enough to pin him down, like a butterfly fastened in a frame. She couldn’t forget it.

  Trying to ignore the rod of pain that was her spine, Ellie bent down. Daddy’s bony feet were obvious beneath the shroud. Her breath was harsh in her chest as she gripped his legs and lugged his weight backwards. Each inhalation of the crisp coastal air shocked her throat and her nose started to drip. Fresh blood leaked through the socks on her foot. She would do this. Fifteen, sixteen…

  ‘Please.’ She shivered and tightened her grip, pulling harder to get his uncooperative corpse into the enclosure. The bottom of the shroud was now wet and discoloured a greenish brown from its tortured slide across the yard and onto the dirt floor of the cage. The shovel lay on the ground by the shed where she had dropped it. She kept her eyes averted from the base of the shed. Mummy wasn’t there any longer. Mummy was safe. And Ellie would be too, as soon as Daddy was in the earth.

  She leaned the shovel against the enclosure wall and half-lifted, half-pulled his body closer to the hole, favouring her good foot.

  ‘Which way?’ She whispered the words, her breath a misty curl that warmed the tip of her nose. Should his feet point towards the entrance or should his head? She had never decided. Did it even matter? Ellie squatted on her haunches and looked out through the wire entrance. From this height, treetops jutted against the wakening sky and wispy clouds looked painted on the dawn. If his feet pointed towards the entrance his head would be close to his dogs and he would still be able to look out and see the coastal skies. Ellie stretched as she got to her feet, unfurling in imitation of Percival awakening.

  Daddy wouldn’t really be able to see anything, she knew, but it comforted and thrilled her, this idea of the sky. He had been a man of the earth, but she was going to enter this world of light and he would be positioned to see her in it. She nodded. His feet would face the door.

  ‘Let’s go.’ She would have to swing his body around. It was awkward and halfway through she decided turning him had been a stupid, ridiculous idea, but it was too late to stop. His body teetered on the edge of the grave. Her tugging on the shroud had weakened the stitching and the already-thin fabric was dangerously close to fraying.

  ‘No.’ She didn’t want to see him again. ‘No, no.’ He was her father and she loved him and hated him and she wanted him buried. It was time. Ellie placed her good foot into the grave and took hold of the cotton. With a deep breath, she wrenched his body around and flinched as something touched her calf—his hand falling within the shroud. She bit down on her lip and pulled. His body slid into the grave and fell onto her foot. It was cold and damp, the cotton dirty and wet from dew and decomposition. She rocked unsteadily against the wall of the grave. The white form lay hunched, a tall man in a small tub. The grave wasn’t long enough.

  ‘No!’

  She heard Daddy’s braying laugh. He would be with her forever.

  

  A breeze toyed with the tops of the gum trees around them. Jack unclenched his fist and stretched out his fingers. He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been holding them until he’d felt the cramping pain in his hand. He could hear bird-calls and the sounds of his footsteps and Arthur’s as they trudged through the bush. Jack was sick of this place, sick of everyone in it, Arthur especially. Why had he come along?

&
nbsp; Without speaking, the two boys made their way deeper into the bush, following a narrow track until it disappeared. Then they clambered over rocks and past trees, away from the water’s edge, away from the safety of houses and people. Arthur, with the gun, remained behind Jack. Jack made to step over a fallen tree trunk that blocked their way when he heard Arthur’s voice.

  ‘Stop here.’

  Jack turned and faced him, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat away from his face. He would have loved a drink of water right now, but they were nowhere near a creek, nowhere Jack had ever been before.

  ‘Strip.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Strip.’ Arthur’s eyes blazed, but his face was curiously blank. The rifle pointed at Jack’s chest was unmistakable.

  ‘You’re kidding, you’re not…’

  Arthur cocked his head.

  ‘No. You’re a fucking psycho.’

  Arthur moved closer until the nozzle touched Jack’s breastbone. ‘You fucking stupid? Strip.’

  ‘No.’ He grunted as the nozzle was thrust into his chest. Arthur tapped his finger on the trigger.

  ‘Strip.’

  Jack closed his eyes and lifted the plain cotton shirt over his head.

  Arthur had taken him. Fucked him hard up the arse. Jack, stripped naked, bent over the log, not fighting back even as he’d heard Arthur unzipping his pants and moving behind him. Had Arthur dropped the gun? He made to turn his head, but Arthur’s hand on the back of his neck stopped him. There was a strength in those hands that overwhelmed him.

  ‘This is what you want, huh? Isn’t it?’ Arthur sounded somehow proud between grunts. ‘Just what you like.’

  ‘No, no, not like this, no.’ Jack shook his head, then stilled as he felt Arthur’s hot breath at the ear.

  ‘Who’s the man now, huh?’

  Jack hadn’t known whether the rifle was within reach or whether Arthur still held it in his hands. He’d figured it wasn’t, but could not bring himself to move. He tried to yell, to speak, but no more words came. Pinned to the trunk by the stocky weight behind him and the powerful arm pushing him forward, his legs spread eagled by Arthur’s, he was shamed and mute. Tears of humiliation rolled down his face as he felt himself involuntarily stiffen against the bark. Arthur came with a victorious grunt.

  Jack sank to the ground, his head on the fallen trunk, arms dangling uselessly by his sides. It wasn’t over. His humiliation wasn’t finished.

  ‘Turn around.’ A panting, wild-eyed Arthur pointed the gun at Jack’s head and gestured to his cock, which had started to harden again. ‘Suck it. Suck me off.’

  Jack shook his head and gave voice to the word screaming in his head. ‘No.’ Arthur swung the rifle around, smacking Jack across the face. He released one hand and clenched a fistful of Jack’s hair, dragging Jack’s face to his crotch.

  Jack tried not to gag as he swallowed cum and tears and felt the litter of the scrub—rocks, sticks, seed pods—imprint themselves into his knees. Arthur kept one hand firmly pushed down on his head. Jack heard a cockatoo screech in the distance and pictured a large white body, wings outstretched, its yellow crest dancing in the air. He pictured a flock of cockatoos wheeling above, flying free. Images to distract and distance himself from the act. Arthur groaned, then raised the rifle and delivered a stunning blow to the side of Jack’s head with the butt. Jack fell to the ground, curling his body up as he cradled his bleeding head in his hands. He could barely hear Arthur’s voice through the pained buzzing in his head.

  ‘You’ll do what I say, got it? You won’t tell anyone about Miriam or this. Next time it’ll be the rifle up your arse, right?’ Arthur stepped back, pulling up his pants, and as he zipped his fly, his customary mask of contempt replaced the fading look of excitement. Arthur delivered a final kick to Jack’s cum- and sweat-smeared buttocks and hoisted the gun over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re mine.’

  Jack stayed huddled and shaking for a long time after Arthur had left. Endless minutes or hours later he rolled over and brushed the dirt and leaf matter from his knees, feeling each indentation with juddering fingers. He redressed, not bothering to shake the leaves and dirt off his clothes. The sun was lower in the sky, but other than that he had no idea how much time had passed. It had been an eternity since morning. He stumbled out of the bush, blood still trickling from his arse and skull. As he neared home, Jack broke into a shambling, painful run.

  He showered as soon as he got home, thankful that his parents were out. He didn’t want to look at them, especially his mother. He couldn’t have borne her to see his face. He looked at his bed. There was something atop the pillow. A bullet.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Arthur must have been in here this afternoon, afterwards, whilst he was still in the bush. He felt his guts twist as he replayed Arthur’s words in his mind: ‘You’re mine.’ He would never be free. Never. He cupped the bullet in his palm and squeezed it compulsively until it was clammy with sweat. He had to end this.

  He couldn’t tell his parents. They wouldn’t be able to handle it. His dad was still so upset by the loss of his stupid birds it was as if he couldn’t even look at or talk to his wife or son any longer. Something in him had retreated. Jack had felt practically invisible to him anyway since he’d told him he wasn’t the one who had made Miriam pregnant. He couldn’t imagine trying to tell him about this afternoon. How on earth could he describe the sense of power Arthur had held over him, the paralysing fear? His dad would never understand. He would never accept that Jack hadn’t fought back. His mother would probably never speak to him again, nor his dad neither, except to say he’d asked for it, just like that guy down in Coledale that time... Better off dead. Save the family the shame if the story ever got out. Buggered by a Clements. A tear rolled down Jack’s cheek.

  He couldn’t tell his mother. She’d probably disown him on the spot, or drag him off to Church begging the spindly minister for an exorcism, wailing about everlasting damnation.

  ‘Fuck it all.’ His parents hadn’t wanted to hear the truth about Miriam’s pregnancy, so how could he tell them he’d been raped?

  ‘Fucking never should have said anything.’ He punched the pillow before burying his face in the soft down. His head ached from the blow of the rifle butt and he didn’t need his fingers to feel the lump on his skull. ‘Idiot’. If only he’d never threatened Arthur with the cops, or even asked him about his sister. He never should have tried to put into words what he felt, who he was. Never should have told Arthur. None of the men or boys he knew, nobody he knew, talked like that. Spoke of feelings. Especially not those kinds of feelings. Not his parents, no one. He should never have been friends with Arthur. Never.

  He thought back to one of their Sunday trips to the movies. To Arthur imitating the swagger of the handsome lead, Arthur’s stocky form loping down the footpath. I thought he’d understand. Jack raised an arm and punched the pillow again, ashamed, uncaring of the tears dampening the cover. ‘I was wrong. So fucking wrong and I’m sorry. Sorry for Miriam. Sorry for Mum. And Dad. Sorry for me.’ Each choked apology punctuated by a punch to the pillow. Jack took a shuddering breath and sat up. There had to be a way to escape Arthur. He couldn’t go to the police; this was too small a town. Even if he didn’t tell them about this afternoon, only told them about Miriam, what could they do? It was too late for Miriam. She was gone. Arthur would tell on him. Just to get back at him. In this town, that would be what people would remember, Jack the fag. ‘No.’ He couldn’t live with that. He wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t put his parents through that.

  He could run. Pack a bag and get out of town, head to the city, try to find somewhere to stay, a job, a new life… He went to his chest of drawers and thumbed through his wallet. He didn’t even have enough for a fucking train ticket. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  He heard his parents’ car make its way up the drive. They were
back. He had to decide. He tried to picture sitting at the kitchen table with them this evening, the regular clink of cutlery against plates the only sound to intrude upon the many silences that accompanied their meals. How would he explain the bruises on his face? Would his parents sit there, just another ordinary evening, not wanting to know, pretending all was well? He didn’t feel like eating—hell, he didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything ever again. His gut clenched, his arse was sore, and his mind replayed the day’s events on an endless loop. He stood and pocketed the bullet. He wasn’t going to hang around waiting for Arthur to tell, or worse, attack again. There was a way to escape Arthur. To protect his parents from ever finding out the truth.

  ‘Dinner won’t be long.’ His mother was in the kitchen, wearing her permanent frown.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he paused. ‘Mum, I…’ he stopped, wanting to say something, but was unable to form the right words, any words. He kept his face from her as he scanned the kitchen. Damn, she’d put her handbag in her room already. He retreated into the hallway; the bathroom door was shut. Jack cocked his head. He would have to be quick before his father came out. Jack headed for his parents’ bedroom and switched on the light. His mother had left her handbag on the bed. Fumbling, he pulled out her worn leather purse as he heard the sounds of the toilet flushing and a tap running in the bathroom.

  ‘Shit.’ He grabbed a handful of notes and hastily tried shoving them in his pocket but he wasn’t quick enough.

  ‘Hey son, what are you…’ His father’s frame blocked the doorway, as his eyes scrutinised his son’s face and dropped to his hands, ‘…doing in here? Stealing?’ With that final word, his father advanced towards him.

  ‘I just needed to borrow some. I’ll, I’ll pay it back,’ Jack offered lamely.

  ‘Stealing from your mother, huh? That’s how we raised you?’

  Jack shook his head.